


A Little Room Inside

by emmaliza



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Dom/sub Undertones, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Knebworth, M/M, Multi, Self-Loathing, The Wilderness Years, Topping from the Bottom, safe sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-13 12:38:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16892769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Robbie desperately wanted to see Mark again, but seeing him again makes everything harder, and more complicated, than it was already.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Back For Good."

Rob's bouncing on his feet like a kid on Christmas. _Mark's coming. Mark is coming._ Maybe he shouldn't be as excited as he is; he knows that, if he really wanted to, he could have seen Mark a lot more often in the past eight years than he has. But the fact of the matter is, _now_ he's seeing Mark, waiting in the lobby for him to show up and come join Robbie in the biggest performance of his career, and Rob's so giddy he can't stop grinning. He used to be like that as a kid, but not for awhile now. Mark always brought out the best in them.

The glass doors, surrounded by a gaudy golden frame that tries to pass them off as old, despite the fact they're automatic, slide open. And there he is. Mark. Small as ever, though his hair's a little longer, wearing a black trench coat that's too big for him. Nigel always used to put Mark in clothes too big for him, to sell his cuteness to all those screaming teenagers. _Git_.

“Mark?” Robbie knows he shouldn't, but part of him can't believe Mark is really here. Why would he want to be? After everything he said, about the band and... Logically, it should be _him_ who doesn't want Mark here, doesn't want a hanger on from the band he left years ago riding his coattails, but it's not like that. It could never be like that.

Mark is too good for him. No matter how much more famous he is, that will never change.

“Rob.” Mark grins at him, that same perfect, blinding grin as ever. For a second, it all fades a way. Paparazzi flashes and cocaine noses, Robbie forgets it all, and believes he's the same sixteen year old that first met Mark outside a gay club in Manchester he'd never heard of, believing this audition would take him on to fame and fortune and everything he'd ever wanted.

(Which it did, but he just didn't realise what would come with it.)

_It's me, Markie. I'm still here. I haven't changed that much, promise_.

Before he knows it, he's swept up in a hug, Mark's arm around him warm and gentle as the sun and moon themselves. His heart aches. _Mark_. “I missed you,” Mark murmurs into his chest, and Rob can hear the pain in his voice. Is part of him awful enough to be _proud_ of that? “Oh god, I missed you so much.”

Awkward and out of practice, Robbie hugs him back. “I missed you too, Markie.” But it doesn't sound as convincing. “I did miss you.”

* * *

They always used to share a hotel back in the day, and Robbie sees no reason to stop now. They've got a lot to catch up on, after all.

Mark's got a girlfriend now, of some description, though Rob doesn't ask how serious it is. He remembers Mark saying that on the telly. It's not because Mark was just on telly, that the nation of Great Britain just remembered how sweet, how kind, how lovable he is, that Robbie's invited him on this tour though. He's not that fucking shallow.

Almost courteously, Mark has to ask about his lovelife in return, but there's painfully little to say – other than the groupies to still cycle through his bed like they did through all of their beds back in the nineties, and Mark seemingly winces thinking about it. Robbie's not been with a woman who actually meant anything to him since Nicole, and look how that worked out?

Yeah. Banging groupies is easier, far less chance of heartbreak. Robbie's had enough heartbreak for a lifetime.

Of course, Mark would have to have been deaf to have not heard the rumours about why he _really_ has had such trouble with women, but to his credit, he never mentions it. Any drunken snogs or declarations of love from those days go unrecorded, dismissed as unimportant, as Rob has spent so many years trying to dismiss everything about Take That as unimportant.

But Mark, he's the most important thing in the world, he is.

One night, Mark pokes his head out of his hotel room and asks: “Hey, Rob?” And Robbie pokes his head up, wanting to help with whatever he can. “You don't know why it's so hard to get a bottle of white wine at this hotel, do ya?”

He does know. He knows that he can't bear to have a drop of alcohol near him, lest he fall off the wagon, and he's rich and famous enough that he can make the hotel staff actually go along with that bullshit, to just smuggle the drink in for anyone else rich and famous enough to demand it, because whoever they are, chances are they're not going to be as rich and famous as him.

Robbie can't meet Mark's eye. “No mate. Sorry.” And Mark just makes a confused 'hmm' noise, as ever blissfully unaware as to just how much Robbie has fucked his life up. But Rob can live with that. Whatever it takes to get Mark back in his life again.

* * *

Girls still flock to Mark, they always did. They flock to Robbie too, but he's much better at hiding from them when he can't make all the effort of knowing another person (and when he wants them to validate him, he can just as easily ask an assistant to ask one up to his room, with as little involvement on his part as possible). It's never so easy for Mark, who couldn't be rude to anyone if you put a gun to his head. Especially not someone who fancies him. Especially not a _fan_.

It's a tall brunette in a tight black dress Mark is talking to over the hotel bar, and Robbie knows he shouldn't even be there, but Mark hadn't come back to his room in hours and Rob was starting to worry.

He should just leave well enough alone, Mark's a grown up, he can look after himself (whereas Robbie really can't), but impulse control as bad as ever, he goes and invites himself himself to their little chat. “You know, I really did think _Clementine_ was underrated,” the girl is babbling. Robbie looks her up and down, though he's not sure why he bothers. He's seen thousands of girls of her type.

Then again, he shouldn't be rude, given all those girls have given him over the years.

Mark laughs along sweetly, charmingly. “You know, I always did wonder who bought it.”

The girl is the first one to notice him. “Oh,” she says softly, her face colouring pink. She's starstruck. People are always fucking starstruck around him.

(Why aren't they starstruck around Mark?)

Mark seems puzzled, looking back over his shoulder with a concerned frown. That immediately shifts into a huge grin when he sees it's Rob. “Hey!” He jumps up and gives Rob a hug, so tight it almost knocks the breath out of him. _Fuck, maybe I have to cut back on the fags as well._ “Hi there, we just, this is–” Mark looks back to introduce the girl, but she's already gone. _Good riddance,_ thinks Robbie, and he frowns. Why is he so annoyed about this?

It's not like he has any right to be jealous.

Mark seems confused and disappointed by her disappearance, and Rob quickly wants to distract him. “Don't worry 'bout it, Mark,” he says. “Plenty of her about.”

That makes Mark look back at him, with a horribly worried expression. _What's wrong?_ “I wasn't–” he stutters, “we were just talking, that's all, I wouldn't–”

Rob has to laugh. “Relax, Markie, I trust you.” Not that Mark could take that girl, or any girl, to bed if he fancied. They were all prodigious shaggers back in the day (even Gary – fat, awkward Gary). Sometimes, cute innocent Markie put even him to shame. He could fuck his way through his whole room, if he fancied.

But still, if Mark already _has_ a girl, Rob can't imagine him ever cheating. He doesn't have it in him to break anybody's heart.

Mark, after a moments hesitation, smiles again. And Rob is filled with fondness – that's Mark, always so worried about making sure everyone else is alright, even when he's done nothing wrong. Rob claps him on the shoulder. “C'mon, you promised me a game of cards, didn't you?”

And Mark's eyes dart nervously over the bar, remembering something. “You shouldn't be here, should you?” he asks. “In a bar. I made you come after me. You shouldn't be here.”

He's right, Robbie shouldn't be here, but Rob has to deal with Mark's instinct to blame himself. He still smiles when the thinks of the nights he and Markie used to party, but that doesn't mean it's good for him. “Don't worry about it,” he says unhelpfully, and when Mark strings an arm around his shoulders, he wonders if Mark has had more to drink than he first thought. “C'mon, back to my room. Don't you worry about a thing.”

* * *

He clears Mark out at cards, course he does. He's a lot more practiced. Mark huffs jokingly as Robbie nicks the last of their makeshift chips (scraps of paper Mark tore off the hotel's customary notepad) from the centre of the bed, grinning smugly. “You cheated,” Mark pouts at him.

Robbie laughs. “Nah, You're just shit.” Mark grabs a pillow to hit him with, but he's still grinning. Mark doesn't really have it in him to hold a grudge. Robbie quickly darts out of the way, and grabs his own pillow to defend himself; then it's a full on duel, full of childish giggling as Rob gets a face full of soft white feathers, and Mark – Mark looks just the same, is boyish and innocent and wonderful as ever, and Robbie wants to believe he's just the same: he might feel like a totally different person to the one who met Mark outside that Manchester club in 1989, but Mark, Mark never changes.

Maybe it's a boring sort of fun they're having, but it is fun. _Gaz would approve._ Rob winces. He told himself that having Mark here wasn't going to make him think about anyone other than Mark. And on the list of people he wasn't going to think about, Gary fucking Barlow was pretty near the top.

They wear out pretty quickly, which is probably a sign they're getting old. The pillow fight is seemingly a draw, as Mark collapses on top of his, panting a little for breath. He is pretty like that. No-one could ever accuse Nigel of not being able to spot a pretty boy when he saw one. “I wasn't kidding before, you know,” Mark murmurs, and Rob frowns. Is Mark talking about the girl before, or...? “I really did miss you.”

Oh. Rob remembers that now. “Me too,” he says quickly, because he _did_ – even when he was trying to convince himself that he hated everything and anything to do with Take That, he missed Mark so much.

Mark looks up, and gives him a pained smile. He looks like he wants to believe it, but he can't. It makes Rob feel awful. He reaches out for him. “Mark–”

“I just, I need you to know,” Mark grasps his hand before Rob can grasp Mark's, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. You were my best friend, and I should have been looking out for you. I wasn't, I was only looking out for myself. I'm so, so sorry.”

Immediately, tears spring to Rob's eyes. And maybe that's stupid but – seven years, all he wanted was for one of them to apologise to him. To acknowledge they fucked up. Is it that simple?

And yet...

Robbie swallows the lump in his throat. “It's not your fault,” he whispers. And frankly, he doesn't even know if it's true or not, but he does know that Mark looks so pained that Rob would say anything, absolutely anything, just to make him feel better.

It only makes Mark look more pained through, squeezing Rob's hand tighter. “Rob...”

For the first time, Rob remembers that Mark has been drinking, and he hasn't – he's not allowed to. Back in the nineties, they could do whatever they bloody well liked on a drunken, drug-fuelled night out, and rest assured in the knowledge that they were just as out of it as each other, and neither had any right to hold it against the other, if they even remembered.

Now though, Mark is – well maybe not drunk, but at least tipsy, and Rob isn't. He has to be careful. He has to not take advantage.

Before he can really figure out what that means though, he feels Mark's mouth pressed on top of his own. Needy, desperate. Rob's lips open in a heartbeat, of course they do. He'd do anything for Mark.

Mark's a brilliant kisser, of course he is. Years of practice. But as their tongues meet, Robbie remembers why they've barely seen each other for eight years.

With Mark, comes the past. It could never not.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whose fics are getting longer than she initially anticipated? this girl!
> 
> Shout out to Chris Heath for writing _Feel_ , whose work, coupled with my reliance upon it in this chapter, may prove a fascinating legal case in years to come.

They don't talk about the kiss afterward. Mark falls asleep and Rob leaves his room and that's that. How could they ever talk about it? Rob loves Mark, he's always loved Mark, but he could never _talk_ to him.

Before he knows it it's not just Mark hanging out in his hotel anymore though – they actually have to _perform_ together, because there's no other reason for Mark to be there.

(And Robbie hates that, he hates that _so much_ , but doesn't know any other way to live.)

Robbie finds himself backstage, darting about from room to room, desperately trying to conquer the constant, all consuming stage fright that consumes him every time he walks out on stage (but people who don't even like him have been buying tickets to the Greatest Gig of All Time, and he can't let them down). Mark, where is Mark, Mark could make this better, Robbie's sure of it (but he couldn't really, Mark loved him more than anyone else in that band but still, Rob knows that in the end, Mark couldn't fucking fix a thing).

And then he wanders into one dressing room or other and spots a bottle of wine there.

Robbie stops, staring at it like it's a vicious predator. “Hey!” he calls out, and his voice echoes off the walls. Everyone else is too busy getting ready for his gig to worry about what he says. Because no-one is listening to him, he only gets louder. “Hey! Who the fuck put this bottle here?!” He hears murmurs and intrigue from outside the door, and that's the attention Robbie wanted, that he needed. “Whar, do you think this is fucking funny? I'm an alcoholic, you fucking cunts! I told you people I didn't want any drink around here! Yeah, really great joke, you know I could have you all fucking fired–”

“Rob!”

And all of a sudden, Mark appears. Rob spins around and sees him, and just like that, his nerves are soothed. Mark is here, how bad could things possibly get if Mark is here? ( _Pretty fucking bad,_ he remembers, but he tries not to). Mark though, Mark looks unsettled. “I'm sorry, that's – that's my bottle. Sorry.” He plucks it off the stool it was resting and holds it to his chest possessively. “It's just cheap stuff from down the supermarket. I didn't realise you'd mind so much.”

And Robbie immediately feels guilty for lashing out the way he did. “Oh, no, that's fine,” he says, backtracking wildly. “Just because I can't handle my drink doesn't mean you can't, right?”

Mark winces a little, and Rob frowns. _Why's he got a bottle of wine backstage anyway?_ He can't remember Mark ever drinking before a show in the nineties. Him, yes, always, but not Mark.

“You sounded half-ready to fire someone,” Mark says with a smile and a quirk of his eyebrow, but Rob can tell, he's worried. He's always worried, their Markie, but still.

“What? Oh, no, it's fine,” he insists, not very convincingly. “I'm just stressed, stage fright you know, this lot are used to me saying all sorts by now.” And that only makes Robbie feel guiltier. He knows Mark's familiar with his habit of saying _all sorts_. “I wouldn't sack someone for something like that, not really.” He doesn't think so, anyway. His crew are the closest thing he has to friends these days, he doesn't like to think he'd just discard them so easily.

Then again, Robbie's never had the best self-control.

“Right,” says Mark, staring at the bottle in his hand a moment. Horribly, Rob starts to feel like he recognises that look. “Anyway, I better put this away, yeah?” he asks. “We're due on stage in a minute.”

“...Right,” Rob says, suddenly remembering that yes, fuck, he has to go on stage, his useless piece of shit self has to go out there and entertain more people than practically anyone fucking history, people who've paid good money because they believe he deserves to be up there, that he's one of the greatest performers of all time. And Mark's not actually got to show up for an hour, maybe an hour and a half, but in the panic that detail's easily forgotten. “Right you are, Markie.” And Mark smiles at him, before he starts looking for the exit and, presumably, a fridge. Before he can leave the room though, Rob impulsively throws his arms around him. Mark stops, freezes. The bottle of wine is cool against Rob's belly, but Mark's body melts into his. “Good luck out there, yeah?” Rob asks into Mark's hair, desperately trying to block out the acrid smell. “I'll see you on stage. But good luck.”

* * *

“ _I guess, now it's time, for me to grow up..._ ”

He's on stage. When isn't he on fucking stage? And this song, he's performed this song a lot, with the band and without – though of course, he didn't really get much chance to with the band, a few months later and he was gone. But anyway, he knows the words. He keeps changing them, but he does know them.

It's not what it once was, not the cruel, spiteful joke he made in the first few years of his solo career – the joke Gary was remarkably good at pretending to laugh along with, which only made Robbie want to spite him more. He always hated Gary's fucking masks. But he tries so hard not to hate Gary, or Take That, or any of it anymore. He wants to let it all go, because he knows holding on is no good for him.

But all the same, there is so much to let go.

He breaks into the thrash punk chorus and, alright, maybe part of it's still a joke, but what else could it be? He doesn't do it to be mean. No, the very opposite. He wants to honour what he once was. While still never, ever going back.

The band was never just fucking Gary, no matter what he might have thought. There were always good bits to it.

For example.

Mark comes onstage for the second first, and the women in the audience all scream (Rob likes to think his audience is so much different now, but it isn't really, so many of them are the same fucking people, just older). They all remember him. They all love little Markie as much as he does.

“ _In the twist of separation, you excelled in being free,”_ Mark sings to him in front of more people than they've ever performed to together before, and Robbie knows it's true; from any outside perspective, he sure looks like he's the one who excelled. But it never felt like that. Not for a second. “ _Can't you find a little room inside for me?_ ”

_Yes, yes, of course Mark, always,_ thinks Rob, but he knows it's never quite that simple.

Robbie wraps an arm around him, holds him close, and accidentally cuts off the last couple of words of his verse – he didn't mean to do that, he'd never mean to do that. But Mark doesn't mean to mind, he just looks up at Rob – in awe, in joy, in _love_ – and god, Rob missed that.

Then it's back to the chorus, and they're at opposite ends of the stage, singing at each other, pretending like they're rockstars when they couldn't be further from that. And Mark just grins at him, grins like he loves every second of it. Robbie wonders what that's like.

When the song's over, Mark's quick to disappear from stage, always hating to step on anyone's toes – least of all his. It makes Rob's heart hurt, and he calls him back. If told, Mark comes back on stage, and Robbie makes him take a bow, makes him lap up the attention. If this is the last thing he can do for Mark he will. He holds Mark's hand, holds onto him as long as he can, because Mark _loves_ him, and Rob can't remember the last time he truly felt that.

When it really is time for Mark to go, Robbie punches his fist in the air, makes a proclamation: “The memory of TT lives on!”

But it could never, ever not.

* * *

After the show, he and Mark sit backstage, dwelling on old memories. Mark laughs with him as the recall that time he almost got Nigel to let him shag a girl, but didn't, and wound up almost cutting his leg off in the attempt to hide her. They recall that time he cracked his head open when Howard pushed him into the pool – but it was funny then. They're good memories, near-death experiences notwithstanding. His biographer is there, one more part of the fascinating avant garde multimedia project that is Robbie Williams, but Robbie can pretend he isn't, that he and Mark are alone for once. Their whole friendship has been conducted with someone watching them, why should now be any different?

They're the sort of memories that, a few years back, Robbie would have done anything to bury. Thinking about the good times only made the way things ended hurt more, and so it was easier for Rob to just not think about those times, to convince himself that he was better off without the lot of them.

But that was when he was still expecting the wounds to heal, when he thought that leaving the band, surely but slowly, would make things better. But it's been seven years and while he's finally kicked the drugs and booze, he hopes for good this time (alright, maybe he's still technically on drugs, but they're proper drugs, legal drugs a doctor gave him, that doesn't count right?) – he feels like more of a wreck than ever.

And so, if he's not going to stop hurting anyway, he might as well indulge in a little nostalgia. He's done worse things to himself.

Mark spurs him on, smiling at everything, in that incurably Mark way of his. Rob missed that smile. That smile always managed to make everything seem a little better, even if it was still, in the end, pretty shit. Robbie would never have stayed in the band as long as he did if not for that smile.

Of course, he can't avoid the memory of everyone he hates forever, but even when he can't, Mark has the perfect answer to it: “It doesn't matter.” From anyone else, that would piss Robbie off, but not Mark. He's right. All these resentments, everything that burns him up inside, all the things that do him more damage than any of the people he holds them against – Mark's right, they don't matter. He knows that's not actually going to change anything, but still, he wants to thank Mark for telling it to him straight.

“The Tao of Owen,” he declares it, knowing the biographer is taking everything down. Rob doesn't really believe he deserves to be recorded in such detail, but maybe, maybe Mark does.

Mark seems flattered by that, the thought that Rob has turned his incurable niceness into philosophy. Mark wants to believe he matters to Robbie. Which he _does,_ he always did.

In the midsts of this Tao of Owen, old memories come back to life. “There was this one time I said 'fuck off' to Nigel. Do you remember?”

“Yes!” says Mark, too quickly. He _does_ remember. He remembers because it matters to him. And if it matters to Mark, it matters, full stop.

But Rob's in too deep to back out now. He doesn't quite hear half the words he's saying. “...and I went–” he makes a strange, unintelligible noise, a desperate but ultimately foolhardy attempt at communicating his terror. “And Gaz–” he stops. _Gaz._ He's not said that in years, and the word feels strange, foreign, almost toxic in his mouth. Gary Barlow isn't Gaz anymore; Robbie can't let him be.

Gary was fucking awful to him, Rob doesn't doubt that. It's just, for so long he needed to believe that Gary was only ever awful to him. He never wanted to remember anything else – that there were moments that weren't so bad, there were moments he almost liked Gary, there were moments Gary seemed to like him. The more he thinks about it, he's almost certain Gary really _did_ like him: just never enough to stop being Nigel's pet. It was easier to think about Gary as simply Nigel's henchman, the both of them as enemies that he, eventually, vanquished, no matter the toll it took on him.

If Gary was ever anything less than absolutely awful to him, then how could Robbie fucking live with himself?

But surrounded by Mark's all-encompassing love and forgiveness, Rob can't help but remember: “And Gary got me out of it. He went: 'Well Nige, Robbie's developed a sense of humour sense you've been away.' And he got me out of it.”

Mark says nothing, but Rob can see his smile spread a little. Mark _wants_ him to forgive Gary, he knows that. Mark wants him to forgive them all, so they can all be a part of his life again, and Gary's always been the one he hates the most.

It's funny though. The one he hates most is the only one who ever stuck up for him, even over something as stupid as that.

Mark never did.

Rob needs to escape now, and Mark understands, not saying a word as Rob gets up and goes to piss in a bush. The memory of Gaz's stupid joke – the shield he put in front of Rob, before he got kicked off the bus like Jason that once – is now stuck with him, and Robbie curses under his breath. _Fuck off, Gaz._ It's not fair, but there was one person he wasn't going to let ruin his whole reunion with Mark, and Gary Barlow was it.

When he returns, Mark is still smiling, when isn't Mark smiling, but there's something more nervous about it now. That only makes _Rob_ nervous, and he doesn't need any help with that, thank you. Still halfway across the room, he calls out: “Hey Mark, do you remember–?” and he doesn't know what he's remembering.

“Please don't say the wanking on the tour bus!” Mark answers, helpfully.

Rob stops, hand still on his fly. “Oh, I'd forgotten that.” Now he remembers though, he can't help but have a fond chuckle. _Good old Howard._ Who else would have a wanking contest with him? Howard was always his second favourite of the band, after Markie (though that may have been more through process of elimination than anything). He misses How sometimes – not like Mark, but still, sometimes.

Howard was always Gary's though, just like Mark was his. He could never have done anything for Rob.

Rob looks Mark in the eye again, sees him turn a slight pink to have raised the subject. Mark watched all that, Rob remembers. He never really understood why, didn't want to ask about it, but secretly, he kind of liked it. “I won,” he says, and pauses. “And sort of lost at the same time.”

Maybe _that's_ why he won.

He sits back down, and the conversation carries on into yet more memories, both painful and brilliant. They're getting in too deep, and part of Rob thinks this must be bad for him, but he doesn't know what else to do.

Mark is here, and Rob has no idea how to drag himself away from him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

A few hours later, Rob is back in his hotel room, lying on the same sort of soft foreign sheets he's been lying on half his life, unable to get to sleep. Of course he can't get to sleep, when was he last able to get to fucking sleep? He groans, rolling on his side and grabbing a pillow, rolling it over his head to try and block out the world, the moonlight obscenely bright outside his window. There must be some pill for this.

In the other room, Robbie assumes Mark is sound asleep, probably having sweet dreams even. Now the concert's over, he'll be off the next morning, and Rob knows that's really not as much of a big deal as he's making it out to be – now the lines are open, he can talk to Mark again, see Mark again, whenever he bloody well pleases. Whenever he calls, Mark will come running. It's just...

Rob lies awake assuming that Mark is asleep until 4:36 in the morning. Then he hears a knock on the door.

_Is that Mark?_ And Rob sits up in a panic, perhaps worried that it _isn't_. Maybe it's a bomb threat, maybe it's a security scare, maybe one of his bodyguards has come to tell him they need to leave, new. Robbie's one of the biggest pop stars in the world, he always has to be worried about these things. But no, if it was something like that, the whole hotel would be in trouble and panicking, not just him. Mark's in the other room, and so it has to be him. Has to be.

Rob answers the door in just his pants – not as if Mark hasn't seen him almost-naked (or, for that matter, actually naked) – and sure enough. “Rob,” Mark says when he spots him, dressed in silk pyjamas, sounding surprised he's there. After all, seven years ago – or three years ago – Robbie never would have been in his room at this hour. “I couldn't sleep.” _That_ surprises _Rob._ He shared a room with Mark more nights than not for at least three years, and never knew him to have any trouble sleeping. Mark winces. “I didn't wake you, did I?”

He smiles at that, at Mark being Mark, still so kind and so worried about every bloody thing. “Mate, when did you last know me to be asleep at this hour?” And Mark takes a moment to think that over. Of course, the last time Mark was around to notice him not sleeping, it was because he was out partying all night and crashing in the morning, but anyway. “Come on, in,” he says, because Mark won't do it without his permission, and Mark sighs in relief, more relieved than he ought to be, really.

There's a thud as Mark sinks onto the edge of his bed, looking up at him, smiling beautifully. He looks even smaller down there. “Did you have a nice night, Rob?”

Rob stops. Unwittingly, a lump forms in his throat. He spends so much time worrying about whether a performance has gone well or not, if he's been the Robbie everyone needs him to be, and everyone around him worries about that too, but it's not often anyone asks if he enjoyed the night or not. They're all too used to him saying _no_. “Yeah,” he whispers, and he means it. He did enjoy tonight. Usually he doesn't, usually he's fucking terrified every moment he's on stage, but with Mark... with Mark, he didn't feel alone. And that made it better. Rob forgot what it was like not to feel alone.

It was like it was back in the day, but without any of the awful bits that drove Rob to the brink, that made him into the wreck he is today.

Mark smiles wider at that, and slowly, his hand reaches up and grabs Rob's. _Um_. “It's just, I was thinking,” Mark says, shuffling from side to side on the mattress, still not losing the grin. “It's all over now, isn't it? The performance, I mean. Knebworth. That was incredible, Rob. All those people... all for you.” Rob smiles, letting himself be smug a moment. Usually, all those people just intimidate him, make him feel he can't possibly be worth all the trouble – and they'll find that out any moment. And they'll be angry.

Mark though, Mark has _always_ believed he was worth it.

Fingers tighten in Rob's own, and Mark carries on. “I was just thinking...” And Rob tilts his head to the side, not sure if he just heard a slur in Mark's words, or if he just imagined it. “You know, now it's all over. I'm going to miss you.”

Another smile. Another lump in Rob's throat. He tightens his fingers too, possessively, trying to hold on. “You going somewhere, Marko?” he makes a joke of it, even when he feels like he could burst into tears. “It's just one performance. I'll see you again soon. I promise.”

Mark's smile stretches wider, but Rob can see in his eyes, he doesn't believe him. He doesn't _trust_ him. And why should he? He's already disappeared on Mark once, why wouldn't he do it again?

Rob winces. He never meant to do that. He never meant to hurt Mark. When they kicked him out, he was angry, and he wanted to hurt Nigel, and Gary, and Jason – and maybe poor Howard too. But not Mark. Never Mark.

It's not as if they've never seen each other for the past eight years, but Robbie's let himself drift further and further out of Mark's orbit. He's always loved Mark, but for so many years loving Mark seemed to come hand in hand with loving the band, and Rob just couldn't do that (barring the fact that secretly, he always has). It hurt letting him go, but it would have hurt worse not to.

Mark rises up on his knees, pulling Rob closer. “Well, nevermind that,” he says, brushing the question aside with his trademark grin, and Robbie is happy to let him do it. “We just make the most of the night.” He pauses, looks at the clock. “Early morning.” He scrunches his nose. “Well, we're still young, right?”

Rob smiles. Markie's hit the big three-oh, but he's still a little way off. “Careful Mark,” he teases, “I'd hate to be accused of luring a naïve, impressionable fan up to my bedroom.”

_Fan._ Robbie hates himself for saying it, even as a joke. In what fucking world is Mark his 'fan'? Rob would never want that, but Mark doesn't seem to take offense. He bites his lip and curls his fingers over Rob's tattoos. “Oh, I don't mind,” he says with a cheeky smile. “I've certainly been in worse.”

Rob suddenly remembers the kiss from the other night. He can't believe he forgot that. He stares down at Mark, and tries to figure out what's going on. It's not as if they've never kissed before – a couple of times back in the nineties, drunk and/or high after a night of partying, tired and emotional as the papers would say, willing to delve into just how deep their emotions for one another really ran. Just teenage experimentation stuff, nothing serious. Rob's sure Nigel must have spotted them at least once, and that's why he was so sure Robbie was gay. That's his life story all over, really, tiny incidents being blown way out of proportion.

In all honestly, Robbie doesn't know if he's gay or straight any better than anyone else at this point, he doesn't know how he would even know, but for once it's the least of his problems. Mark. Mark isn't just some bloke, and if he kissed Rob and has now come to his hotel room at four in the morning, begging him to stay – well, what does that mean?

“Don't doubt ya,” Robbie grins, pretending he's not starting to feel like he's in over his head. “You're worse than me sometimes, honestly.”

Rob's not a hundred percent what he means by that – probably just the shagging, really – but it doesn't seem to come out right. A funny look comes over Mark's face. “Hey.” Mark pushes himself further up, and Rob's just about to backtrack and apologise when he feels Mark's gentle hands on his shoulders. “Hey.” He's a tiny bit wobbly as he pushes Rob down, until they're face to face, and then he kisses him again.

Mark's lips on his are soft, gentle, pleading almost. Robbie's not like that, and after barely a moment's hesitation he opens his lips wide, grabs Mark by the hair, pulls him in closer, plunders his mouth with his tongue. He _wants_ Mark. Mark groans and grabs him by the arms, clinging to him; Mark wants him to, wants him back (back, back, back for–) and part of Rob knows this is probably a bad idea, but that's never stopped him before.

As they kiss something settles on Rob's tongue, a familiar taste that raises a queasy feeling in his belly. When he pulls back Mark is out of breath, pink-cheeked and keening. “Mark, have you been drinking?” he asks, the wine on his lips dizzyingly worrying – he never was a wine guy, really, but the taste of liquor makes him feel horrifyingly close to falling off the wagon when he's not even been near a bottle in over a year, and that's not _fair_.

It wouldn't be fair to blame Mark for it either, though. He wrinkles his nose, seemingly embarrassed, and digs his fingers into Rob's biceps. “Only a little,” he insists, and he sounds sober enough. “I promise Rob, I'm not pissed. I know what I'm doing.”

Maybe so, but Rob still wonders, where does Mark keep getting the wine? More to the point, _why_ does he keep getting the wine?

He's not convinced, but when Mark kisses him again, Robbie lets it happen. He needs to believe this is alright. If Mark's not responsible for himself, then that makes Robbie responsible for both of them, and he just doesn't have that in him. He needs to believe Mark's thought this through, and he thinks it's okay; he's not drunk, and his girl won't mind – maybe they have some sort of agreement, maybe she doesn't mind him hooking up with blokes put would be pissed if it was a another woman, something like that. Rob wants to believe he's okay, that Mark wants him, and wanting him isn't going to fuck things up for him.

Mark isn't patient; within seconds Rob feels hands on the waistband of his briefs, tugging down eagerly. He lets it happen. Mark's teeth nip softly at his bottom lip and all of a sudden there's a hand inside them, and he gasps as Mark wraps his hand surely around his cock and starts to stroke. They've never gone this far with each other before – Rob's never gone this far with _any_ bloke before (though he suspects Mark has) – but it doesn't feel strange. It feels natural. Like it was always meant to happen.

The moan Rob lets out into Mark's mouth is just a little bit embarrassing, and Mark pulls back with a smile on his lips. “It's alright, Rob,” he says, “I'll look after you.” And in a clumsy, but certain motion, Rob feels his pants fall down around his ankles.

_Wait, is he going to–?_

Rob doesn't even get time to complete that thought before Mark is bobbing his head, wrapping his small hand around Rob's still-not-fully-hard cock before licking along the underside. Rob moans and thrusts toward the movement instinctively, of course he does, but then he tries to pull back, afraid he might hurt Mark. Mark won't let him though. He digs his nails into Rob's hips and keeps him still before he wraps his lips firmly around the head, leaving Rob to keen and gasp at the hot mouth engulfing him.

_Fuck, he'll be the death of me._

Mark is good, and he's shameless, before long he's taking Rob almost to the back of his throat, fingers curled expertly beneath Rob's balls and Rob cries out so loud he's sure the last stragglers from the concert will here, let alone the gutter press who would be so pleased to have all their theories proven correct, but there's nothing he can do about it now. He feels strangely helpless – all he can do is tighten his hands in Mark's hair and try not to thrust in deeper, to let Mark take this at his own pace, because he desperately doesn't want to do that to Mark – he doesn't want Mark to think that's something Robbie would do to him.

Rob whimpers as Mark takes him deep, too deep, far deeper than he really thinks can be possible but Mark always could surprise him, and he was barely even hard a minute or two ago – and he doesn't really feel like he's about to come, he's not sixteen anymore (despite the part of him that feels like really, he never stopped being sixteen) – but he feels like he's on the brink of doing something he regrets, and he tugs urgently at Mark's hair. “Mark, Markie, wait.”

Mark pulls off him obediently, looking up with pink lips and huge blue eyes. “Rob?” he says, nervous. _Did I do something wrong?_ those eyes seem to scream, and that's the last thing Rob wanted him to think.

Rob lets go of his hair, instead reaching for his hand again. “I-I... love you.” It's the only thing he can think of to say. It's true, it's always been true, and Mark probably knows it already but still, it has to be said. Mark smiles at him, but as Rob's learnt over all the years he's known Mark, that could mean anything.

“I love you too,” Mark says simply, and Rob swallows the lump in his throat.

“Kiss me again.”

Mark looks bemused at that, perhaps thinking it's not like Rob to value a kiss over a blowjob – and a decade ago, it wouldn't have been. But Rob doesn't want it to be like that, Mark simply servicing him, the same as any of the thousands of people who've been through his bed – that's the last thing Rob wants. Mark raises himself back up on his knees so their mouths can connect again, and Rob finds the taste of wine overwhelmed by the taste of _him._ He groans between Mark's lips, and for once he takes advantage of his greater size, pushing Mark down onto the bed.

There's a gasp as Mark's back collides with the mattress, but Rob tells himself, expensive as this hotel was, the bed better be fucking soft enough it doesn't hurt. He drapes himself over Mark, one knee either side of his trim waist, and kisses him again, desperately, sucking Mark's tongue into his own mouth. He rubs himself all over Mark pathetically, and part of him hopes that something, whatever it is that makes Mark special, will rub off on him.

Mark gasps as Robbie's hard cock finds his own, still fully clothed, and that's not really fair and Rob can already feel himself leaking precome over Mark's pyjamas – he'll have to be careful, else he'll ruin them. “Rob,” Mark moans as Rob breaks the kiss to gasp for air, still grinding hard against him, and Mark meets him beat for beat, their cocks both full and aching against each other. Maybe it's childish, dry humping like horny teenagers, but whatever. Robbie's certainly down worse things.

Rob moves to kiss Mark's neck instead, sucking the skin and leaving a bruise ( _a mark,_ he thinks and almost laughs), while Mark grabs him by the hair and pulls him closer. “Oh, _Rob_.”

“I love you,” Rob whispers against his skin, and inexplicably, tears spring to his eyes. “Mark, I _love you._ ” He pulls his head back up and stares at Mark, who stares at him back, blankly. “Mark, please tell me you know I love you.”

After a moment's hesitation, Mark licks his lips, nods. “I know,” he says. “What do you want from me?”

Rob stops. Oh. Mark knows, but he doesn't understand. Rob ignores the pang in his heart and snorts. “Fuck that,” he says. “What do _you_ want?”

Mark just stares.

Suddenly, Rob finds himself rolled over, onto his back.

It catches him off-guard; it's not a position he often finds himself in, for no matter how willing and adoring a groupie he finds himself with, it still makes him feel out of control, when he already feels so painfully out of control at the best of times. This isn't some groupie though, this is Mark, and Rob trusts him. Doesn't he?

Mark bites his lip as he settles on top of Rob, grinding against his naked crotch, getting his own clothing stained. “Rob,” he whispers and leans down to kiss him again. Rob gasps for breath and grabs Mark's hips, holding on, and Mark takes it as a signal, pulling back to shimmy out of his bottoms. “Rob,” he echoes as he pulls back, “you've got condoms, right?”

Rob blinks. “Yeah, 'course.” He's prone to self-destructive tendencies, but not _that_ self-destructive. Before he knows it Mark's pyjama bottoms are in a pile on the end of the bed, and from them emerges a small, see-through bottle. He blinks in surprise. Shit, that's probably going to come in handy, but at the same time why did Mark even bring it?

There's not much time to think about it though before Mark's leaning over to the hotel dresser, scrabbling for a johnny. Rob, uncharacteristically afraid of how fast things are going, digs his nails into Mark's skin. The flesh turns red, and he worries he'll leave a bruise. “Mark,” he says, a note of panic in his voice, “are you sure this is what you–?”

“Shut up,” Mark snaps at him, and that's so out of character that Rob's eyebrows jump a mile. When Mark meets his eye again, he looks guilty. “I mean, I want – just – god, Rob, I–”

Mark doesn't seem to have a fucking clue how that sentence is meant to end either, so instead he just kisses Rob again, and from that point on, Rob just lets it happen. He's kind of useless to tell you the truth; he closes his eyes and laps up the kisses, but he doesn't notice that Mark's got three fingers inside himself until he hears the moans and whimpering.

His eyes snap open, watching Mark roll his hips obscenely, eyes semi-shut in bliss. _Fuck_ , thinks Rob. _He's done this before,_ he thinks a second later, which he thinks he kind of already knew – and yet it raises the question of when it happened, how it happened, and why didn't he already know? The sight of it makes him moan, makes him thrust into the air, his cock now aching and wet. “Markie,” he whispers, needy and desperate, and who else could ever make him act like that?

Mark groans loudly, reaching for the condom packet while still not removing his fingers from his tight little hole. “I'm coming,” he says, and Rob thinks _you better bloody not be!_ , but Mark didn't mean it like that. He tears the packet open with one hand and his teeth, which Rob knows you're not meant to do, but oh well, he's not particularly worried he might knock Mark up (a bug, on the other hand...). Rob tries to reach for him, to hold him close or to slow him down, but before he knows it there's a hand – still wet with lube and god-knows-what-else, and fuck that should not be hot – around his wrists, pinning him down.

“No,” Mark tells him, “stay.”

Rob gasps in shock at being talked to like that, at _Mark_ talking to him like that, at Mark talking to _anyone_ like that, but he doesn't get time to process it before Mark is rolling the condom onto him with soft, delicate fingers. Rob shudders and keens toward the touch, and lets Mark do what he will, _do what you like, no need to ask me._

“Rob,” Mark says as he settles himself just above Rob's latex-covered cock, looking perfectly ready, and there's no going back now. Rob moans as he feels that heat rub against him. Tears spring to his eyes.

“Mark, I love you,” he whispers.

Mark just moans as he pushes himself down.

_Oh fuck_ , thinks Rob as he's engulfed, his prick struggling to get through Mark's tight ring of muscle before Mark forces in in, shuddering around it and making Rob arch his back, gasp for breath. The sound that comes out from between his lips though, is just the barest whine, almost delicate.

Mark's hands find his chest as he tries to keep himself steady, running his fingers over Rob's tattoos and the coarse dark hair around his nipples. Rob groans, wants to reach for him again – Mark's grip on his wrists is loose, but still, he does not move his hands. “Mark, please,” he whines as Mark starts to move, hesitant, taking a few moments to find the right rhythm and making Rob's eyes roll back in his head.

_It's alright,_ Rob thinks as Mark builds up confidence, gathering a quick pace that makes his cock – hot and wet and _big_ , Mark was always much bigger than him, which is only fair given how small the rest of him is but still – slap against Rob's belly. _It's only Mark. Mark would never hurt you._ It's not like Rob has anything to be afraid of anyway; it feels good, having his cock in Mark's sweet, tight little hole, and as Mark takes him balls-deep Rob can only moan and keen up into him, desperate for more but for once, letting it be someone else's choice.

It's hard to keep his eyes open, but he does it, because he needs to see Mark. Mark looks beautiful, his long hair mussed and sweat-soaked, plastered to his forehead, silk pyjama top too big for him, bouncing around as he rides, eyes closed and biting his lip in bliss. Rob kind of forgot he could make someone feel like that. _He still looks like a fucking angel,_ Rob thinks in wonder, even as he rolls his hips like a slut. Mark was always like that. You couldn't imagine anything could ever touch him. You couldn't imagine _Rob_ could ever touch him.

Mark moans loudly, and Rob cries out as one of Mark's hands pinches his nipple, hard. _Ow!_ With the other, Mark fists his own cock, gasping in need and clearly getting close, quickly. It feels like this all happened very fast, but Rob's sense of time has always been kind of fucked up. “Rob,” Mark whines as his precome splatters over Rob's navel, “oh god, Robbie, _please_.”

Rob frowns, his hands twitching above his head. They're now free to do whatever he'd like to Mark, but he won't. He's the one on his back, letting Mark use his prick like a fucking dildo, so what's Mark begging for?

Still, he does his best. He bucks into Mark's insides as hard as he can, and Mark groans at appreciation, his hole clutching tight as he brings himself to the edge. _Fuck_. It won't be long, and Rob wonders if they'd have lasted any longer had they done this when they first met, what was it, fourteen years ago?

Mark cries out whorishly and comes all over Rob's belly, but Rob doesn't mind the mess. Having Mark's come on him makes him feel cleaner than he has in years. With that thought, Rob moans and comes into the condom with a shudder, and soon tastes something strange in his mouth. Blood. From how hard he bit his lip.

_Well, what did I fucking do that for?_

They both pant and gasp to get their breath back, and soon Mark collapses onto his chest. Rob brings his arms down to hold him, and does not bother to remove his rapidly-softening cock. “Hey,” he says, and kisses Mark's hair, Mark doesn't answer him.

After a second, the silence starts to worry him. What, was it not good? Was he a disappointment? Or is Mark simply having second thoughts? Was Rob wrong that his girl must be okay with it? What's going on?

Seemingly, Mark can feel the growing tension in his body, and so pokes his head back up to head it off. “I got you dirty,” he says, with an apologetic scrunch of the nose.

Rob has to laugh. “Hardly,” he says, and Mark looks confused. _Is that it?_ “Really, Mark, I don't mind,” he insists, just as his limp cock finally gives up it's grasp on Mark's hole. Mark quickly rolls the condom off him and tosses it aside, maybe making more of a mess, but oh well. Rob still holds him tight, wanting to relax in the afterglow. “I trust you Markie, don't worry.”

Mark's mouth opens, like he wants to say something. But he doesn't. He lays back down against Rob's chest, perfectly willing to be cuddled like a stuffed toy, but Rob can now feel the tension in his body instead.

It's not like Mark to ask him for anything, and so if he wanted to, Rob could just keep holding onto him without another word, and pretend that everything's fine and dandy, that this is exactly what he wanted when he invited Mark on tour.

But a strange voice at the back of his head says, and it's a voice he suspects has been missing for a fair few years, that Mark needs him to not do that.

“Mark?” he says softly, running his fingers through Mark's hair. “Mark, is everything alright?”

And Mark looks back up. All of a sudden there are tears in his eyes. “I never wanted you to go,” he says. “Really. I know – when we sat you down, and all that, but – I didn't think you'd really just leave me.”

Fuck.

They're talking about _that_.

Rob wants to brush it aside, to pretend it doesn't matter, to _get over it,_ because it was eight fucking years ago and the can't let that band control his life forever, but when Mark says the words all the thoughts and feelings come rushing back. “You _kicked me out,_ Mark,” he whispers.

“I didn't mean to,” Mark shakes his head desperately. “We – we didn't think you'd really go. We thought we'd kick you off the drugs and booze and then–” Mark turns his head suddenly, ashamed. How could he ever have thought it'd be that simple? “At least, that's what I thought.”

Rob tries to swallow the lump in his throat, and it doesn't want. He doesn't want to say this, he really, desperately does not want to say this, but the truth is yanked for him. “That's the thing though, Mark,” he says, anguished. “The rest of them – Jay and Gaz, even Howard – I never expected them to stand up for me. I never expected them to care about me.” It physically hurts saying this. His lungs ache. “You though... you were my best friend. You were my only friend.” A tear rolls down his face. “I thought you'd choose me. And you didn't.”

And Mark has a tear to match his, staring at him dumbfounded. “I'm sorry.”

Suddenly, Rob feels awful.

Here Mark is, in his bed, having just ridden his cock and now burst into tears, and Rob is trying to guilt trip him over something that happened almost a decade ago? Fuck, what kind of selfish cunt _is_ he? “No, no, it doesn't matter.” With both hands he grasps Mark's hair, pulls him into another needy kiss. Mark kisses back like his life depends on it. “Tao of Owen, remember?” he whispers when they break apart for air. “It doesn't matter.”

Mark smiles at him weakly, and returns to the kissing. Rob wraps his arms around Mark's waist, and kisses him breathless. Kissing makes things easier. Kissing means they don't have to talk. There was always a lot of kissing, back in the nineties. It would be easy enough to fall into it, to let it be what defines the two of them now, to lose themselves in simple pleasure and pretend everything that went before it doesn't matter anymore. Robbie's certainly done worse.

But the more they kiss, Rob tastes something at the back of Mark's throat. _Wine_. And as much as he's tried to deny it, things have slowly slotted into place over the past few days. Mark has been the boy he loved, but Mark hasn't quite been the boy he _was_ , and Rob knows better than to fool himself otherwise.

Rob breaks the kiss. “Mark...” he says, as delicately as he knows how (which isn't very). “...Mark, are you alright?”

And Mark just smiles at him, as ever. “'Course, Rob,” he says. “'Course I'm alright.”

Rob knows better. He _knows_ Mark is lying to him.

But what he doesn't know, he thinks as he silently pulls Mark back against his chest, is what to fucking do about it.

And that only makes him hate himself more.

* * *

In the morning, Mark has to leave, which he always had to do in the end. While no-one's looking, he whispers in Rob's ear that he's glad he can get a cab, that he doesn't have to walk too far, but Rob doesn't notice a limp as he moves about the hotel.

Maybe Mark's just flattering him.

He opts to help Mark put his suitcases in the back of the taxi himself. He has lackeys he could use for this sort of thing, but he wants to wring out every last moment. Besides, it's five in the fucking morning, and only the most devoted of Robbie-stalkers are up at this hour. He wants to carry the gauntlet, just this once.

The boot shuts with a conclusive _thunk_ , and Rob turns to Mark. “So, what now?” he asks.

Mark tilts his head to the side. “Well, I'm starting a tour in a month or two,” he says.

“Really? That's great!” Rob exclaims, too enthusiastically. It sounds condescending. _Fuck_. Not trusting his mouth to do anymore, he reaches forward and engulfs Mark in a huge hug instead.

Mark hugs him back, squeezing his eyes shut, until Rob can feel his lashes fluttering on his neck. “I'm going to miss you, Rob,” he whispers.

Rob's heart jumps. _He thinks he'll never see me again._

“Not for long,” he says, and pulls back up. Mark looks puzzled. “Soon of that tour of yours is over, we'll meet up, okay?” he insists. “We'll see each other again soon, I promise.”

And Rob's never been great at keeping his word, but this time, _this time,_ he swears, he means it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~I finished it, hooray!~~


End file.
